


time’s never been on our side

by haanten



Series: time [3]
Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: F/M, I started writing this before I knew about ww1984 so this won’t go with that, all you need to know is steve is there but not really, also ballparked the time as like late 1960’s, also lol just realized I mention Barry so like the 60’s aesthetic not the time hashtag continuity, time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 16:33:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15100718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haanten/pseuds/haanten
Summary: Sometimes Diana thinks she’s destined to love a someone just inches from her reach.





	time’s never been on our side

**Author's Note:**

> so I listened to like 4 songs writing this and it was  
> you and me - niall horan  
> dusk till dawn - zayn malik  
> sky full of song - florence + the machine  
> hearing - sleeping at last  
> I recommend reading ‘from whence we came’ before this to get some references towards the end. it’s not much so don’t feel as though you have to, jus a lil self plug, validate me.  
> anyway uuuhhh please enjoy xx

Steve only comes at night, starlight and all. Diana’s Paris flat overlooks the city without trouble. A cool breeze plays with the curtains of the French doors and light from the city and moon fall from the sky and sprawls on the floor. 

Diana sits at the small kitchen table across from the open doors, the light just reaching her toes. She’s not doing much, her hands folded under her chin with her elbows on the table. The table isn’t too big, cute and quaint, but big enough for another person to share a meal with her. A candle is lit in the middle of the table and two glasses sit next to it, one nearly finished and the other completely full. 

Diana lays her hands down on the table and fiddles with the watch on her wrist, undoing and redoing the strap, twisting the face so it rests on the inside of her wrist, and back up to the top again. She does this until her fingers stop shaking. 

The room is swathed in shades of blue and Diana feels it. It’s an odd coldness compared to the warmth of the alcohol down her throat and in her belly. She brings her hand close to the candle’s flame and moves her fingers around it absentmindedly. Every other light in the flat is turned off as the candle’s light tries to fill the quiet room. 

She doesn’t pay mind to the time passing as she waits, but she does listen to the city’s music. Sounds of cars passing through the streets and building maintenance and the hustle of night owls create a not necessarily bad cacophony, but sometimes Diana misses the countryside’s lack of sound. What Diana misses most is how the city lights reach too far into the sky, too greedy to conquer the night and make day again. Diana craves the reset night brings her.

A shadow passes in front of the light and a figure makes itself known. Diana doesn’t have to look up to know who it is and only gently motions at the empty seat. She toes the chair out from underneath the table, careful to remove her feet before she brushes his as he sits down. He smells the same as he always does, salted from the ocean and singed from the fire. 

Steve looks the same as the last time Diana saw him, all hard lines and soft smiles, sad eyes and a hint of stubble. The blue light looks good on him, almost like he’s right out of a film. And all of a sudden Diana hits a wall where her heart screams to keep moving against the solid brick, an absolute flood of need to reach out and touch him, to feel that he’s here, but she knows she can’t, so she keeps her hands under her chin and clutches at them like they’re his. 

“Your hair’s different,” Steve whispers, hand ghosting around her face, impossibly close but not touching. It is; she’s cut it into a bob, coming to a stop mid-neck. It had started getting impractical during fights, so she sacrificed style for functionality and chopped it. The curls are still there, but they’ve calmed down into more of a wave. 

“Yeah,” she replies, voice barely audible and hands coming down to wrap around her glass. “I’m free now.” She doesn’t feel it. She’s still weighed down by her mistakes, shackled at the ankles to the past with the key right in her hand, unable to turn it. Steve’s right in front of her and she’s unable to touch him. 

The first time Steve had come he was gone just as fast. She hadn’t seen him in thirty years, the world had just seen itself through another war, and Diana was tired. She was in New York, of all places, in another high rise apartment, and she had said his name with as much hope that could be put into one simple word, and ran to him. The moment she made contact, he was gone for another six years. Since then, Diana had learned to distance herself, to not let herself get pulled into his gravity too close. 

Diana doesn’t bother to ask  _ how _ or  _ why, _ she only pleads for a little bit longer and a little bit more. She prays to Nyx, goddess of the night and its stars, to will Apollo and his chariot of the Sun away for just a little while longer, to keep Steve bathed in this starlight that looks so natural on him. 

Steve looks to Diana then back out into the night sky. His shoulders are held tight and his throat is choked up. Diana watches as his eyes fill with tears, catching the glimmer, and fall like moon drops. 

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this, Di,” he says, chin dropping to his chest, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

She wants to reach out, to place her hand on his other hand outstretched on the table. Part of her almost does just so he doesn’t have to hear an answer she can’t give. Instead, it just hovers above his, until he flips his hand so their palms would be touching if he reached up an inch. There’s everything in that space: a whole world left untouched. Instead, he pulls away, instead, she lays her hand next to his, instead, she gives him the only answer she can.

“I know.” 

The breeze picks up and blows the candle out on the table. The curtains blow a little wilder and the wind whistles through the old windows. Everything’s fast and violent for a moment, and as soon as it has come, it’s gone. Diana stands to go grab a lighter for the candle and waits for Steve to grab her wrist, knowing full well that he has matches on him. He nearly does, he disturbs the air around but stops himself before he can make contact.

His set of matches are out before she even turns back around and he lights the candle. With the still burning match, he lights a cigarette he’s pulled out of his overcoat. It’s a small cigarette held with his thumb and forefinger, the ember hidden in the palm of his hand. Plenty of boys back in the war held their cigarettes like that in the trenches so the lit embers wouldn’t give away their positions as they peeked. 

“You know, those give you cancer now,” Diana tells him, her eyes softening into a smile as he takes a long drag on it.

“Yeah?” Steve’s lips tug upward in one corner, the other corner holding the dangling cigarette, face warmer than she’s seen it in years. “Well,” he pulls it from his mouth, “what doesn’t kill you.”

Diana pushes the glass of whiskey towards him, but when he reaches to grab it, his hand passes right through. The only acknowledgment of his motion is the slight movement of the liquid like he had dragged his fingertip across the surface. Instead, he mimes picking it up and shooting it back. He looks ridiculous doing it and she tells him so, there’s way too much in the glass for it to be a shot, but Diana laughs anyway. Steve’s eyes squint in the soft way she’s used to, pulling his cheeks up and dragging his lips along with. 

Steve would enjoy today. He wouldn’t know much about what’s going on, but he would love to see an Earth where its common folk fight against war while its leaders bring them closer and closer to the edge. The ice cream flavors have gotten much better, too. 

Diana tells Steve about Barry, about how he’s too fast for his own good and has a tendency to put himself between someone and a bullet. Steve hums in agreement with Diana’s exasperation and gives her a pointed look. They laugh at the stories of Barry’s antics and soon fall into easy conversation, like old friends, like 1918 was a day behind them, like past and future lovers. Diana talks of the past one hundred years alone, and Steve talks of only the thirty-six he was given. He doesn’t remember anything about where he goes when their time is up, but he remembers his time with Diana, so he takes his wins where he can get them. 

The sky breaks with the morning light and Diana has never been so displeased at the Sun. It peeks out over the city and onto Steve’s shoulder as it rises. Diana remains in her seat only to keep looking at Steve’s face, trying and failing to commit every little detail to memory. There’s a small, faded scar on the right side of his jaw that always slips her mind. 

“Shaving,” he says, his voice light, like he’s just remembering it himself. “My father, he was teaching me how to, and he-.” A laugh slips out of his mouth before he can finish, hearty and warm. “He sneezed and scared me so bad I cut a clean chunk outta my face.” 

A prayer falls from Diana’s lips, one asking for a longer night and a solid body in front of her. It’s not above a whisper, and she knows Steve feels it rather than hears. 

“Do you believe in a god, Steve Trevor?” Diana asks. 

“If I didn’t,” he replies, confidently, clearly, “where would you be?” And that’s all he says. That’s all he needs to say. 

Diana prays one more time. 

_ Apollo, yield to the night for a short while longer, long enough for me to never forget his face.  _

_ Aphrodite, send him my love when I cannot.  _

_ Poseidon, guide him back to Themyscira on calm waters.   _

_ Zeus, grant him safe passage of the skies.  _

_ Nyx, give him a home in your night.  _

_ Allow him to be safe, be warm, and be content. I am owed this if I cannot have him. If I can have his spirit alone, so be it, but do not let him be bodiless. Grant him a heavenly body, cast him to the stars and let him sing. Let me hear him every night. Let me hear his cries and laughter, let him hear mine. If I cannot have him, give him back to his Earth.  _

“Wouldn’t happen to have the time, would you, Di?” 

A desperate laugh escapes her as she takes the watch off her wrist, offering one strap to Steve. He can grab it, it’s tangible, it’s  _ his _ , it’s hers. Diana tries to pull him through the watch and capture him in her fist. 

Time stops for only a second; a watch tilted towards Steve and a whispered goodbye, and time starts again, Diana yanking the watch back with everything she can, pulling Steve along with it. She knows she’s pulled too hard, but she also knows it doesn’t matter. Before they make contact, Steve’s gone, cold air and morning light in his place. Her fist stops before she hits herself and the only sound is the ticking of the watch. 

Diana sits there for a long time, hand frozen next to her face with the watch. Her throat is too tight and tears refuse to fall from her eyes. She stares out the open doors that overlook the city and realizes how empty the world is when you’re up so high. She gets up, walks to the sink, and pours out Steve’s glass of whiskey. The glass gets placed upside down, unwashed, next to the bottle, waiting to not be used again. 

She pulls herself together, changes her clothes, and puts her shoes on one foot at a time. The sun’s up and the paperboy is out on his route, haphazardly chucking rolls of newspaper from his bike. 

_ “Sorry, Miss Prince!” _ He yells, already down the road, when Diana ducks under one of his blind tosses, but he’s already throwing the next one. Steve would’ve liked that kid.

People ride by on bikes, up for the morning and ready for the day. Fresh fruit stands pop up more frequently as Diana gets closer to the farmers market. Their sweet aromas swirl around Diana, making her dizzy with its force. She exchanges pleasantries with the keeper of the peach stand, a young woman with freckles lighter than her skin. There’s a well worn, well-loved apron tied around her, a phrase hand embroidered near the waist.

_ (Je suis amoureux. I am in love.) _

Diana buys six peaches and a bar of homemade soap and she waves off the keeper giving her change except for one coin, flicking it into a fountain as she passes it. The walk back to her flat is busier, more families walking down the cobbled sidewalks, young children bounding ahead of young parents. A little one with a mop of dark brown curls runs too far ahead of his parents, and Diana scoops him up before he can run out into the street. There’s a familiarity in his face as she spins him around, a twinge in his giggle, and Diana’s holding Eamon back in Ireland with the ocean air in her face and soft sand underneath her feet. 

She sets the child down back in Paris and pats him back to his mother, who grasps his hand tight, giving a full  _ merci _ to Diana. 

It occurs to her that the little ones back in Ireland have now grown old and had families of their own. She wonders if they remember her, she wonders if the old signs she’s painted in the town still hang there, she wonders if Caoimhe and Fionn are buried together, if they were still happy. 

Walking up the stairs to her flat, she runs into her neighbor, a little old lady next door.

_ “You’ll have to introduce me to the friend you had over last night,” _ she tells Diana.  _ “I haven’t heard you laugh like that in quite a bit, sweetheart.” _

Diana’s stomach drops and her heart swells.

  
_ “Of course, Maman,”  _ Diana reassured.  _ “I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”  _

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know what Steve is, really. he’s not a ghost, but he’s not tangible being. i’m jus tryin my best here, boys, hope you liked it


End file.
